What A Difference A Year Makes
by SpidEMcD
Summary: Originally begun as a "New Year, something's new in House's life" challenge for the Delphi Forums O/C Babes monthly challenge, this is a look into a situation that changes House's life forever.
1. Chapter 1

**Friday Night January 2011 Challenge**

The challenge: We all know that January usually marks new beginnings, but in this case House has to end something to move forward. Of course you can end his relationship with Cuddy so he can move forward with a new o/c...or you can end something else in his life...maybe something we never knew about...so that he can move forward.

What does he end? What is he beginning?

FOR THE LOVE OF BOURBON

It was morning. I had to be. Why else would he be waking up? Wait. That meant he had slept. An anomaly since the last time he gotten this deeply asleep…

Last night must have been one hell of a bender. Greg was having trouble recalling the details. There was a bottle of something: Maker's Mark, Jack Daniels, something in the midrange price. He remembered standing in front of the shelf at the bottle shop leaning heavily on his cane. Yes, that was the reason for the bender: the heavy leaning.

The leg pain had been increasing for several days. He chalked it up to the unusual cold spell brought to the Northeast by an Alberta Clipper. No matter how many anti-inflammatories he popped, there was no relief. He tried heat packs, hot baths, massages - and even some of the more dodgy homeopathic remedies his friends and colleagues offered. Yet nothing eased the cramping and deep ache that plagued him as if he had never quit Vicodin.

He supposed the holiday season and his bah humbug mood added to the misery. Gloom and Doom, his two constant and ominous companions, weighed on him - the angel and devil on his shoulders. Gloom was the 'cheery' one, always reminding him to be happy he still had his leg, for better or for worse. Doom reminded him daily that it was never going to get better. But it was Howie, the monkey on his back, that steered him into the liquor store.

If he couldn't physically escape the pain, he could drink himself into a comfortably numb stupor. It would, however, take a lot more than he intended to buy. He had been pickling his liver for many years. His buddies: Jim, Johnny, Jack, Mark, the Glens - they were members of the Club, regents of the Crown, Seven-fold. His casket would be lined in Black Velvet. By all rights he should be buried in Kentucky.

Tonight he'd have to take one of these friends home, make love to him in a glass and take him to bed. He didn't have the wherewithal to be picky. He was hurting.

Who'd he pick? Damned if he could remember. Gloom, or was it Doom, suggested sucking a little JD from his titty shot glass. He wanted to make love to his drink, not foreplay. More than likely it was Maker's Mark. A long time, good friend.

He should feel hung over. Especially since he tried to kill all feeling with it. Probably damn near drank the whole bottle. How long had he slept to not wake up with a hangover?

Gloom whispered in his right ear. "Just sleep, House. Give it a little time, and you feel better."

"But I feel good now," he mumbled, his eyes too heavy to keep open for any length of time.

"Wake up," Doom shouted in his left ear. "Time to get with reality."

"The reality is I don't get enough sleep." Greg decided to rest with his eyes closed. If sleep came again, so be it.

Howie climbed into the bed with him and snuggled up. "Feeling nice and relaxed?"

"Mm hmm."

"So what did we drink?"

"Maker's Mark…I think. I remember wishing I could find a bottle of black wax. Better yet gold. I was carrying it to the counter. Then something distracted me."

"Was she sexy?"

"Distracted the cashier, too."

The scene replayed in his head. The bottle was cradled in his left arm while he struggled toward the counter to make his purchase. The bell over the door jingled as one person exited and two people came in. Greg didn't pay too much attention. He was trying not to slip on the wet floor.

Him and everyone else in the place.

There was a noise. A sharp pop like the cork coming out of bottle of champagne, then a bottle fell to the ground and exploded. All Greg could think was, 'That's a waste of good liquor.'

He continued to the counter, eyes diverted by the various liquor sets left over from Christmas sales. He didn't need any new shot glasses or shaker sets, but he had to admit the prices were good. As he approach the end of the aisle, a second 'pop' and 'crash' startled him. He slid on the wet floor, his leg giving out from under him.

The bottle of Maker's Mark, the cane and his body all seemed to hit the ground at the same time.

That was the last thing he remembered.

"Funny, now that I think about it, I don't think it was a woman," he told Howie.

"Nope. You're right."

"I remember falling."

"Yep, we all fell."

"But I don't remember getting up."

"Yeah, 'bout that..."

"Don't listen to him," Gloom whispered.

"Gotta hear it sometime." Doom shot Gloom a nasty glare.

"I must have gotten up, got another bottle and went home."

"That was the plan," Howie nodded.

"You're sorta home," Doom snorted.

"Enough! Let him rest. He's going to need his strength when he wakes up," Gloom scolded. The angel sang a lullaby in his ear.

Greg drifted off to sleep again.

[H]

When he woke up again, it was against his will. Something was forcing his heart to beat stronger, his blood pressure to rise. He was fully cognizant of his wakefulness, except for opening his eyes.

"Keep them closed," Gloom whispered. "Wilson has a surprise for you."

"What, another lecture on getting drunk and passing out?"

"Huh?" Wilson sniffed back his silent tears.

"You going to give me another lecture about getting drunk and passing out?" Something was off, why was Wilson in his bedroom? Had he mentioned the pain and Wilson came to make sure he hadn't done something stupid?

"No lectures, House. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Yep, Wilson the boy scout and eternal do-gooder. He could give a Mountie a run for his money.

"I'm fine Wilson. Still a little drunk by the feel of things. No hangover, though." Oddly enough, Greg was smiling while saying this.

"Can you open your eyes, House." Wilson looked to Cuddy for some kind of assurance that this was normal. His friend was responding to verbal stimuli but not the physical.

"It's bright. I can already sense it. If I don't have a hangover now, the light's gonna make my pupils contract and, wham, instant headache."

"We'll close the blinds."

Greg heard them drawing the slats shut. Wait. He only had one window in his bedroom.

He opened his eyes slowly. It was daylight. The room was dim, but not lit by overhead lights, only the sun's rays filtering through the blinds. Everything was blurry. There were a few blobs of color, which he assumed was Wilson. And possibly Cuddy. He did mention Cuddy's name, didn't he?

He blinked a few times and his vision became clearer. He looked to his right shoulder. No Gloom. To his left. No Doom. Hell, Howie wasn't even cuddled in the bed next to him.

Wilson watched him look around, disoriented.

Before House knew it, someone was trying to laser off his corneas. He swatted the light away, meeting slight resistance. Something was stuck to his hand. He looked at it curiously.

"Probably the aftereffects of the anesthesia."

He assumed it was Cuddy's voice. He laughed. "Anesthetized by bourbon."

Wilson exchanged another serious look with his colleague. He turned back to his friend. "Do you know your name?"

"Greg House. And I'm shit-faced, still." He touched his face with his hands as if it were a new experience; either that or he believed he had shit on his face.

"Do you know where you are?"

"In bed."

"In bed where?"

"Should be my apartment. Doesn't look like my apartment. Ooh, wait, you found me and dragged me back to the condo." House looked around. "Doesn't look like the condo either."

Wilson looked up at Cuddy, who nodded. "You're in the hospital."

"Alcohol poisoning," House laughed. "It figures."

Wilson was dumbfounded. House certainly wasn't responding the way he should for his condition. There was no head injury. There should be no impairment. No memory loss.

The door opened, and all eyes turned to the big black blob that House saw. He couldn't make out facial expressions yet. Just blobs that were beginning to take some shape.

"How you feeling, Greg?"

He knew that voice. Darryl Nolan. Jeesh, couldn't a guy have a few drinks without getting his shrink involved?

"What's this, an intervention," Greg joked nervously.

"You've had a tremendous shock to your body. Sometimes the mind can't deal with it. It blocks things out it doesn't want to acknowledge."

That could mean a lot of things to a guy like House. When things got really bad, really, really bad, his mind went to safe places. Like delusions and hallucinations that kept him safe. He couldn't say so much for the people that suffered through them with him.

Had he been in so much pain he found a few pills to add to his whiskey bender? Was that why they were so worried? He slipped?

He slipped.

Then why didn't his leg hurt? His leg always hurt. Yes, even when he was shit-faced. And especially after he took a spill like the one he had at the liquor store. He should be hurting like a son-of-a-bitch.

He tried to focus his eyes on his body. Damn the all white blankets of the hospital bed and their white walls and white lab coats. It was like a fucking snow storm in here!

His arms reached out, needing to feel his leg, needing to knead the scar tissue through to the emptiness of missing muscle and tortured nerve endings.

Wilson grabbed his hands, restraining them at his sides. "Don't. Not yet."

His friend was close. His face came in to clear view. House realized he was weeping.

Eyes wide open and pleading, he waited for James to tell him what he didn't know. What Nolan said he knew but his mind didn't want to admit. Nausea threatened to wrack his body with upheavals.

"Probably from the anesthesia."

"Damn it, woman, can't you say anything else!" He looked away from the people in the room, to anywhere his vision wasn't distracted and his thoughts could form without intervention. He couldn't feel his leg. Why?

His mind started working through all the probable reasons associated with side effects of anesthesia. Damn it, he was beginning to hate that word!

Wait! You only get anesthesia with injuries, usually for a procedure, mostly for surgery. "What happened!"

Wilson looked from Cuddy to Nolan. They both nodded. "You were shot."

"Again?" Yes, he had been shot before. Twice, at close range. Once in the abdomen, once in the neck. And he hallucinated after that, too.

"Three days ago. In a liquor store."

House just nodded, as if Wilson was telling him a story about someone else he knew. "Three days ago?"

"We induced a coma after the surgery. To keep you out of pain. We stopped the coma, but you didn't wake up. You've been unresponsive until today."

"You're coma worked. I'm not in pain anymore." His brain continued to work feverishly for a self-diagnosis. Had they tried Ketamine again? "I don't have any pain in my leg. Like the last time."

Wilson stepped back from House's smile. Perhaps House really didn't know what had happened in the liquor store. Then again, maybe he did, and his brain refused to accept it. He couldn't be the one to tell him the truth. He wanted to blurt it out, but Nolan thought that Greg should experience it for himself.

"Greg," Nolan waited for House to look at him to make sure he had his full attention. "I want you to watch what I'm going to do."

House nodded.

Nolan took hold of the blankets at House's chest, slowly pulling them down to the bottom of the bed. Little by little his body was revealed. At his waist he got a sickening feeling.

He had been shot. Not in the upper body or torso. He still had sensation in his left leg. Apparently the bullet hit him in the right leg. Must have torn through altering the sensation he had. With a lot of physiotherapy, maybe a brace, he'd limp again. Maybe the pain would be gone forever. Or come back only slightly. He could get through this.

Greg House had hope. And his biggest belief was 'hope is for sissies'. He was wrong. 'Hope was for idiots.'

The bandages started at his hip and went down five or six inches before ending in a mound. His eyes widened, his breathing became labored. No, his brain did not want to believe what he was seeing. It couldn't be.

The world was spinning as he turned his head to face Cuddy. "No. No! NO!"

Gloom popped up on his right shoulder. "Amazing advances have been made. Kids with prosthetic legs are running the hundred meter dash in twelve seconds."

"I liked my leg. I've had it for as long as I can remember."

Doom popped up on his right shoulder. "Look on the bright side. You don't need the damn cane any more. And now the leg can't get worse."

"This isn't happening," Greg shook his head in defiance.

"It's happened. You'll deal with it. We'll all help you." Nolan's voice was steady and strong.

House was amazed that he could hear their voices through a cacophony of sound that reverberated off the walls. He looked around for Howie. Hell, if Doom and Gloom were still around, he'd need that monkey on his back to even the score.

He was there, just off to the side. A syringe in his hand, heading for the IV line. It all stopped. The screams, the tears, the hysteria.

But how long would they have to keep him sedated before he'd wake up and have to deal with it all over again?


	2. Esse Est Percipi

_Esse Est Percipi_

"House?" Wilson sat next to his best friend who remained virtually catatonic since waking fully from his ordeal. There was no response. As per usual. It was getting to be worrisome that James could no longer connect with the one person in the world that mattered most.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way. I didn't want to have to do this, but as your Health Care Proxy, I think it's best." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the pamphlets. "It's called the Kessler Rehab Center. It specializes in people with..." God, he didn't want to say it. But his friend had to hear what he had been denying all this time. "It's the number one facility recommended for people who are dealing with amputation." There, he said it. "It's got everything you could need in one place: doctors, counselors, therapists, prosthetic technicians..." He let his voice trail off. The process would be long and arduous, no doubt. Much better than what PPTH and the surrounding hospitals could offer. And it was an inpatient skilled nursing facility that took the patient from post-operative care to independence. Although James doubted his friend would ever think of being independent again.

Inside Greg listened. He just refused to respond. It was overwhelmingly too much information. His brain had been assaulted upon waking with the lack of sensation, weight and being below his right hip. His body would never be whole again. He'd never be who he was pre or post infarction. It didn't matter. For all he cared, he could be dead. Emotionally he was.

There could never be words or actions that would make Wilson or Cuddy or the members of his Team - anybody for that matter - understand what exactly he was experiencing. It was unique to him. Not even another amputee could comprehend. They did not live his life, experience the same successes and failures and have the same set of values he placed on his body parts. Before the infarction he had been strong, healthy and vibrant. An athlete, musician and doctor, all of the highest caliber. After the loss of the muscle, the athleticism was gone, the musician - at least the pianist - was mediocre, for lack of the consistency on the pedals, and only the doctor remained; albeit wounded in pride and appearance. Who would want a doctor who was less than one hundred percent healthy? It was bad enough he had to use a cane and limp his way around the hospital.

And then Mayfield. Jesus, it was a miracle that he even got past the psychiatric testing to get his license back. Yeah, he had problems with the drug abuse, and the State Licensing Board could see fit to give back his license once he got clean. But they gave a mentally fucked up doctor, granted a brilliantly fucked up doctor, a license. If any of his patients knew he was a nut case, he was sure they'd opt to die than be diagnosed by him. And now he was a one-legged, smart-mouthed jackass whom nobody cared about. If he couldn't stand the pity of having to use a cane, imagine what patients and the public in general would feel for his peg leg. Maybe he could be a doctor-pirate.

Wilson leaned back, curiously watching his friend, who had just cracked a small smile.

"House, you're responding!" To what, he didn't know, but it seemed like a good sign. "You're actually, smiling. And if I didn't know better, I would say you were on your way to a full-blown smirk."

Had he been reacting to his own thoughts of being a peg-legged pirate doctor? Perhaps he'd get a parrot to perch on his shoulder and spew out insults and dirty phrases. He'd call the bird Wilson without hesitation.

"I don't know what has captured your thoughts, but I'm glad to know you're at least having some...thoughts, I mean." Could it be that he finally processed something Wilson said? Was it the Kessler place? Had House heard of it before? Was he thinking he could make progress if he attended the prestigious rehab facility? That maybe life could be better if he had a prosthetic that look somewhat normal and returned him to a sense of stability in functioning?

"Are you aware that you will probably be able to go back to jogging? I'm not sure about other sports, but hell, the advances they've made in this technology have come a long way since the wooden leg. No more splinters."

Greg House was not happy. Well, that was an understatement. He had hardly ever been happy, and since the amputation, he was downright miserable. More miserable than anyone who knew him thought possible. It was never suspected that he would shut down completely, but he had.

It worried them enough to keep them ever vigilant. It was suspected that if he had the chance, House might actually attempt suicide. As it was, they were sure he at least thought about it - if not once a day.

Locking himself away within his own mind only confirmed what they already knew. Gregory House, M.D. had given up on the patients, the puzzles and his life. There was nothing left to be done at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital or by any of his doctors or friends.

Greg had been relegated to a different kind of rehab facility. Kessler. Great, another institution just for his needs. The staff had one goal: to make him feel whole. Fuck that. How can you be missing a leg and still be whole? Physically impossible. No means of prosthetic was as good as the original article. Damn them for interfering.

And so the once great and imitable Gregory House, MD, diagnostician and brilliant mind was reduced to a self-pitying mass of human waste.

[H]

Not long after his institutionalization, as he referred to it for himself, he had been forced to sit in the rec room. His assistant, Sara, with the help of a few aides, transitioned his lifeless body into a wheelchair, strapped him in and rolled him out of the blissful silence of his room.

"Dr. House, like I said before, you can't just wallow in here and do nothing. There's more to life than laying around. And the chance for bed sores, pneumonia and infection will increase.

"You're already working on passive physical therapy. Becoming an active participant would do you a world of good."

House didn't want to hear platitudes. He was angry. Not once was he consulted about what he wanted or needed. Even at PPTH no one directly asked him his thoughts on what treatment he'd prefer, if any. Wilson, in his infinite do-gooderness plotted with Cuddy on a course of action they thought best for him.

Even if he didn't know exactly what he wanted - other than his leg back - participating in a recovery he didn't want seemed futile. And so he began the forced 'socialization' with a purely analytical eye. If he could spend the waste of time observing other cripples, then he could continue his masque of tortured soul while delving into unrelenting self-castigation while he was on parade for everyone to see.

Damn, this was worse than Mayfield. At least there he could be a bastard. Here they left him alone. Oh sure, occasionally they tried to get him to do some stupid task or other, but mostly, they treated him like some idiot who didn't know how over his life really was.

Nobody really thought he was participating, yet in his own way he was looking for something within this rag tag group of people who hoped and were praised for it. He knew hoping was useless. At the end of the journey there was always some disappointment. Always.

And then a man walked in, catching his eye. He was probably about sixty or sixty-five, used a cane and moved like Greg had once upon a time. Well almost like that. This guy seemed to be moving like he had an infarction and muscle debridement in both thighs. Worse yet, the old timer had the stride of a guy with two stiff knees to boot.

Probably one bum real leg and the other an old fashioned mannequin leg. That would explain the stiffness. But he was walking. That gait was a painful reminder that House could no longer pass off his disability as just a bum leg. His hand subconsciously went to where the right thigh had been, intending on rubbing away the soreness.

Every now and again he felt it - the ache and clenching muscles that were no longer there. Phantom Limb Syndrome. Just what he needed, another idiopathic diagnosis. Might as well tell him the stump was a bleb. The massaging of the thigh was just habit, and he knew it. The pain in his leg had been his go-to guy, that companion you could count on always being there. Just because it physically wasn't didn't mean he had to abandon the friend. He couldn't have that. Once Doom, Gloom and Howie left him, the constant reminder was all he had left.

The gimp got closer. 'Probably here for his biannual pep talk with his shrink or something' Greg thought. He couldn't help but snort. The bastard was a figment of what he could be in ten years. He wasn't sure which was better, a painfully slow and awkward hobble or a permanent seat in a rolling chair. No amount of medical miracles was going to bring him to pre-infarction status, no matter what Cuddy or Wilson or even Nolan said. It just wasn't possible.

As far as post infarction status, he refused amputation in the first place for a reason. The point was moot now. The leg was gone. Not even post infarction was possible. Flesh and bone and blood and nerves couldn't be substituted with some plastic and metal. Not possible. Not for him.

The old man continued his walk past House. He was average height, with a substantial upper build from hauling his body around for what looked to be tens of years. His hair was silver. He was probably a light blond or ginger before time crept up and aged him. The closer he got, the more House became aware that the cane seemed to be the only thing propping him up. The guy's legs didn't work so well. Hell, even on House's worst days, he had walked better.

The man stopped in front of him, looking at House curiously. "Do we know each other?"

Greg was astonished to discover the man was talking to him. "No, I don't think so."

He extended his hand in casual greeting. "You're new here. Joe Dawson."

House looked at the proffered appendage noting the calluses on the man's fingertips instead of responding.

"I'm here for my ten thousand mile tune up." He banged the cane against each leg to indicate neither was real. "What about you?"

House's initial instinct was to tell him to bug off, in not so pleasant terms. Yet there was a light in this guy's eyes. Something about the way he smiled when he introduced himself, the way he carried his body through a room, making Greg wonder just how it was a guy could be half a man and still face the world like he owned it.

"I'm sorry if I've overstepped my bounds. You just seemed a little lost in the midst of all that's going on around you. This place can be overwhelming. Especially if you're...well, if you're in the first steps of recovery, it's not so easy."

Normally House would have found a way to walk away from the confrontation. At the very least he'd tell the person they were moronic. But Joe Dawson was different. He exuded a confidence that House only had when he was practicing medicine or playing music.

"What do you do for a living?" Joe pulled up a chair, easing himself down.

Greg couldn't help but watch his movements - ever critical.

It was something Joe had faced for most of his life. "Some days it ain't easy, but it's a hell of a lot better than sitting in one of them things." He pointed his cane at House's 'fancy' ride. "I hated the chair. Couldn't wait to get up and walk again - no matter how awkward the movements might be."

"I'm not you," House said stoically.

"Hell no. You at least have one good leg. Should make it a hell of a lot easier."

"Doubt it."

"Suit yourself. You can sit in that thing the rest of your life, or you can get up and walk, limp, hobble or stumbled your way on through life. You're choice."

"Yep. My choice." The conversation was getting just a little too preachy for Greg.

"Well, I should be going," Joe got up, awkward as all shit, but got up nonetheless and forced himself to move on.

"What did you do for a living?" House was curious. He figured the guy was retired by now, but wondered what he had done in the past, legless and all.

"Do for a living," Joe corrected. "I own a tavern. Play a little blues now and then. But that's just my cover. I'm a..." Dawson took a moment to look at the tattoo on the underside of his wrist; a gesture House figured was more or less a time check. "I'm an historian." He couldn't help but smile.

Before Greg could respond, Sara caught up with Joe. She was toting a case that Greg knew damn well held a guitar.

Joe noted the man's interest. "I like to travel with Betty Lou. She keeps me sane, helps me from feeling lonely in the dark times. And she reminds me that even thought I can't run a hundred yard dash, my fingers can make beautiful music." Joe's smile was calming in a strange way.

"You better go," House inclined his head toward the doorway. "Wouldn't want to disappoint your cheerleaders and be late."

Joe snorted a sardonic laugh. This fellow was one tough son-of-a-bitch wallowing in self-pity. He walked out of the Rec room with Sara and Betty Lou in tow knowing damn well that his every move was being scrutinized by the man in the chair.

House watched, wondering if he was doing it to analyze the man's gait or if he was just sad to see the prospect of Betty Lou disappear. It got him to thinking. Like Mayfield, this place had a piano. Unlike Mayfield, this piano wasn't locked. Fortunately for Greg, he hadn't heard anybody abusing it. As a matter of fact, he couldn't remember it being played at all. He doubted that any dulcet notes could vibrate from the sound board, which most likely had been tone deaf from neglect.

Joe Dawson hobbled back into the room, followed by Betty Lou. He was about to re-engage his new found acquaintance in a bit of conversation when he noticed the patient staring intently at the old upright in the corner. Joe looked from House to the piano and back. There was an unmistakable longing in the man's eyes; an unconscious flexing of the fingers that spoke more than words ever could.

The power of music was therapeutic and the man seemed to have an unseen golden thread linking him inextricably to the upright. Joe redirected his path behind House as not to break the connection. He meandered over to a comfortable chair and settled in before reaching for his beloved guitar.

It wasn't until a few bluesy riffs registered in his consciousness drawing House in the new thought direction.

Joe smiled at him in acknowledgment, nodding his head in a 'hello again' as he continued to work out the melody in his head on the fretboard. He saw the same longing look in House's eyes that he had seen when the man looked at the piano.

Greg responded to the head nod by bristling before opening his mouth. "What's the matter, the sad sack before you still bending the shrink's ear?"

Dawson smiled. "Nope. I was early. So I decided to bond a little bit with my girl."

"Hopefully your better than I think, otherwise your opportunity to amuse the cripple will be cut short."

"The only cripple I see is the emotional one in front of me. Look around, brother - every one of us is missing something in this place. Here nothing makes you more or less than anyone else, physically. "It's what's up here," Joe tapped his temple, "and what's in here," he used the same finger to tap his chest over his heart, "that sets us apart."

House had no immediate response to that.

Joe got to his feet and headed for the man in the chair. "Would you mind holding her for a minute? Gotta potty." He didn't wait for a response as he placed the guitar in House's hands.

Dawson handing over Betty Lou was almost an invite to play. "May I?" House asked cautiously. He hated other people touching his instruments without his permission.

"If Betty Lou will make you feel better, then by all means."

Greg played a mournful series of notes causing Dawson to raise his eyebrow in surprise. "What did you say you did?"

"I was a doctor."

"Was?"

"I guess I still am. Just not practicing anymore." He continued strumming a melody, transitioning into picking.

Dawson just nodded in false understanding. "And you can't do that anymore?"

"It goes against my beliefs."

"What does?"

"Nobody wants a doctor who's in worse shape than they are. They want healthy and whole."

"Interesting."

"What's so interesting about it?"

"You're beliefs are based in your perceptions about what other people want."

"Would you want me as your doctor?"

"Depends. What's your specialty?" He saw the doubt in the doctor's eyes. "I mean, I don't need a gynecologist. But if I'm dying and you could save my life, then sure. I don't care if you're walking, crawling, drooling or have one eye spinning in the socket as long as you can save me, then we're golden."

"I thought you had to pee," Greg said hastily. He wanted the man gone for a bit so he could process the conversation. Joe conceded, heading for the facilities.

Was the man right? Did people not really care if their lives were hanging in the balance?


	3. A Wrinkle In Time

A Wrinkle In Time

The Rec room had become a stable fixture in Greg's routine. The only real reason he allowed himself to be taken from his room to that one was the piano. It called to him, although he dared not play in. He didn't want the staff or other 'inmates' to know he had been a musician once. It was bad enough the staff thought they were doing him a favor by using his professional title as a courtesy, but this only gave cause for the other patients to try to defer their medical concerns in his direction, feeling somehow he had some inside information on the facility and chose to pick and choose his options for treatment. Other patients didn't dare speak out against their proscribed course of recovery.

Greg held out. Still no one had asked him what he wanted. It was more of the same platitudes of 'the best possible course of treatment.' He snorted at that thought. How in the hell could anyone know what was best for him?

He sat in a corner, diagonal from the magical instrument that held his attention. No other clients seemed to notice him in the shadows. No one bothered to acknowledge the old upright just waiting to be played. They were too busy reading, playing cards or just gawping at the boob tube. Greg surveyed the room from where he sat, bound to the chair that he had come to mentally call 'the chariot.' Some days he wished it was like the chariot in Ben Hur with dangerous metal spikes ready to gorge anyone who got too close.

Not that he wanted to inflict more damage on the already damaged patrons at _CASA DE PROSTHESIS_. Lord knew the peons were doing their best to make good with bits of metal and plastic that passed for artificial limbs. Truth be told, those things gave him the creeps. Basically he was too freaked out to even contemplate having anything like that attached to his body.

Finally, he could solidify the thoughts that had eluded him since the initial infarction. Prosthetic limbs gave him the heebie-jeebies, although he hadn't given much thought as to why. More than likely it had something to do with that rat ass bastard that called himself Greg's father. It always seemed more acceptable to the man if a cripple sustained his injuries in an act of war. For all intents and purposes, stepping on a land mind was the best way to lose an appendage. Having a namby-pamby infarction and then being shot was for nancy-boys.

'Toughen up, Greg. You don't know how good you have it.' John House's harsh voice echoed through his subconscious.

Greg snorted with that thought. No, he wasn't a milksop. He wanted to be tough; not lose his curmudgeonly temperament that everyone had come to know and love. He wanted to be Yacci, the old merchant who ran the corner store from his wheelchair. The bastard had both legs clipped off by a train. Not a pleasant thought in the least. Evidently one shouldn't be falling down on the tracks when trains were present. Who knew if you stood too close to the wheels of a speeding locomotive, you could get sucked under? Gives a whole new meaning to drafting.

Yeah, he wanted to be scary like old man Yaccobucci. The kind of guy who was really nice but seemed creepy at the same time. Yacci never wore legs. Of course House couldn't say for sure what extent of damage the bastard had suffered at the mercy of the steel wheels. Who cared? Certainly not Yacci. He just lived his life day-to-day, kind of how House wanted to spend the next, oh, say, foreseeable future.

Somewhere in the yesteryears of amputee war veterans and mangled working man hid the real explanations for House's adverse reaction to his own situation. And after a long while of analyzing his predicament, Sara noted his melancholic air. He needed to be rescued from the gaiety of the Rec room and returned to the placid environment of his private room.

Yes, he had his own mini suite at Kessler. Part of it was because he was a doctor and could afford a little extra privacy. Mostly it was because of his caustic demeanor. The man, upon arrival, made several of the staff and guests cry. Whether it was the doctor's desire to stir up a little trouble or just his inherent nature, it took the staff a while to figure out. And they practiced a lot of patience - especially with House.

Every one of them could imagine themselves in his place: head of a department of a prestigious teaching hospital where he didn't have to teach with perks and a big office. And even thought he was an asshole, it was mostly brushed aside as his rare gift of medical genius saved many lives. Too bad the loss of his leg crippled his mental faculties more than it did his physical ability. It was better to keep him out of the general populace.

His colleague and best friend, Dr. James Wilson, warned them that on a good day, Greg House was brash and insolent. But since the amputation, he had become withdrawn and callous. Any sight of his caustic wit was to be taken as a good omen. But House had been introverted and mostly silent - downright brooding. He spent his free time staring at an old piano forlornly, keeping his rude outbursts to the patients at a minimum while refusing treatment. Kessler became an adult day care facility for the diagnostician. Well, it was more like an adult orphanage for Greg, except for the fact that he wasn't an orphan.

"This isn't a nursing home, Dr. House. You need to top sulking and start living again," Sara chided.

Whenever she started with that rhetoric his hearing automatically turned off. She could have told him his shirt was on fire and he'd continue to ignore her.

She settled him back into his room, but not before noting a discoloration on the fold of his pant leg. "Did you spill something on yourself or am I going to have to force a doctor to assess the residual limb?"

"It's fine," he mumbled miserably.

"Prove it." Sara headed for the medical cupboard that was a fixture in every room, grabbing from it gloves and sterile gauze.

House knew the drill. The one thing that was gospel at Kessler was wound management. No one could afford infection setting in around an area that was already compromised. He unbuckled his pants, pulling them down enough to extract the stub with relative ease. Great, something was seeping from god knows where. Greg refused to look at the actual end of what was left of his right leg.

"Does it hurt?" Sara studied it closely.

"What do you think?"

"Did you bump it, or do anything that would cause the skin to become irritated?"

"Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Me and a couple of the ladies went out to jump rope this morning. I'm a Double Dutch champion."

"I'm going to have a doctor look at it, just to be sure. I could be an abrasion from the jeans for all we know."

"Great, now my pants are killing me."

She taped some gauze over the irritated spot. "You might want to leave your pants off."

He wanted to make a sexual remark but held his tongue. "Okay, but the medic better hurry. I could catch pneumonia without proper clothing."

It didn't take long for some on-loan quack to come in and be surprised. "You're three months post-surgical and the skin is as smooth as a baby's bottom."

House rolled his eyes as the pimple-faced physician marveled at the condition of the surgical site. "Are you a real doctor or just a dermatologist masquerading as a doctor?"

The young physician palpated the area, doing all kinds of manipulating that made Greg want to pull away and vomit.

"You haven't done any scar starvation therapy? Hoping to get a nice build up so you can't use a prosthesis?" He had briefly heard about Kessler's most obstinate patient. It wouldn't work to mollycoddle this man. He'd see it as a sign of weakness. No, give him a dose of his own bedside manner and see how he likes it. "Desensitization of the area would be best…if that's what you want."

House's response was to squirm a bit, repulsed and curious at the same time.

"Once you've grown accustomed to the sensations, working on a callous would be easier…again, if that seems feasible to you."

Doogie Houser swabbed a bit of the seepage. "We'll test the exudate for infection, but it's probably nothing more than lymph draining. Once we have the results back you can decide to keep a dressing over it or let it get some air. But for now, stay away from heavy materials that rub against it."

Sara watched, amazed as Greg House responded to the attending physician. No one had ever captured the man's attention for more than five minutes.

Both left him reclining in his hospital bed contemplating what would be the next potential phase of his recovery. Since the whole new end of the leg thing was sensitive to an extent, it seemed natural to proceed with a regimen that would leave him less grossed out and uncomfortable with the remaining stub. The only problem was the scar. He could hardly stand anyone looking, let alone touching the scarred area where a huge mass of muscle had been excised. Now he was thinking about the blob that was, well, what it was it exactly? Yes, a blob of tissues that constituted the termination of his limb. Egads. He shuddered emotionally and physically.

Greg had lain there thinking as heavy clouds rolling in from the horizon. He hardly paid attention to things like weather anymore. Why bother? He no longer rode his motorcycle because his life was too busy being calendared by the absence of a leg. It didn't matter if it rained, was cold or sunny. The limp was no longer pronounced, his leg no longer a living barometer. All things that affected the infarction site became inconsequential. Nothing mattered anymore.

He dozed in an out, his hands behind his head in thoughtful repose. Leave it to a snot nosed, just out of med school doctor to offer him the options of moving beyond the horror of the scar. Although scar starvation therapy sounded barbaric, he was vaguely aware of its purpose. And then there was the whole desensitization stuff. It sounded like a solid plan. Hell, he couldn't avoid what was left of his leg forever.

When he awoke again, it was considerably later. At least it seemed to be. The sky outside his window was darker. He could just make out a few branches from a nearby tree moving in the wind. It didn't captivate his attention long. The yearning to return to sleep tugged at his eyelids. There was no attempt made to fight it.

At least not until he felt movement. Greg tried to orient himself to his surroundings, but his body felt heavy and his mind was a bit numb and fuzzy. He was being rolled somewhere, not in his chair, rather on a gurney. Oh god, the leg was infected. They were taking him back to the OR for more debridement. He could feel his heart pumping with frenzied fear. It was too late to stop it, he was already sedated.

Greg's eyes felt like they were rolling around the sockets behind his closed lids. He was lost somewhere between wakefulness and unconsciousness. His mind worked at some semblance of recognition of what was being done. He was secured to a metal table. Wouldn't want to fall off. His voice bounced around in his head. He almost giggled at the thought.

The anesthesiologist placed the gas mask over his mouth and nose. The last thing he remembered seeing was Doogie Houser in his face.

"We're going to cauterize the seeping area to get a nice seal."

Housed waited for the gases to kick in. But nothing happened.

"You didn't think we'd knock you out for desensitization, did you?" The doctor called out from behind the surgical draping.

Like a cattle branding iron, House felt the sting of his flesh burning as a malodorous scent wafted in his direction. Although it didn't hurt as badly as he expected, he screamed out of pure fear.

Doogie held up an enormous Wartenberg wheel. The archaic tool was still used by neurologists to ascertain sensation. House writhed with anticipated anguish as the sharp tines rolled across his flesh.

"Sharp or dull, doctor?"

Greg arched against the restraints trying now to howl in pain. "Sharp," he hissed with ragged breaths.

"Good." The physician continued to poke and prod the patient with various objects. House experienced a myriad of sensations: hot and cold, wet and dry, soft and hard, being able to identify each properly when applied. It was a bit like waiting to be tortured, but it also turned his brain on to accommodate an area of feeling it had chosen to neglect.

"You're doing good," Doogie called out. "Now if we're going to set you up with the scar therapy. Let's see if we can keep the tissues from hardening into a welt."

Something gooey was applied to the area. It started warm and cooled quickly as hands molded it over the terminus of the leg. Something heavy creased the paste over the scar as if trying to push it back under the skin. Once in place, the stump was bandaged. Then something hard and heavy was placed across the bottom and wrapped forcefully, strapping it to Greg's leg. The pressure was excruciating, but nothing was as bad as when he was released from the bed and manipulated into standing on the stump, his right stump fastened to some medieval torture device used to force him to stand upright.

What was left of the thigh throbbed and spasmed, reminding him of the crippling pain that tormented him when he was a little more whole. All in all, if wearing a prosthesis was going to feel anything like this, he'd rather sit in a chair for the rest of his life.

The pressure was building at the site as well as in his hip, all the way up his right side. The synapses of his brain were firing, bouncing around in his skull until a keening could be heard over the chaos. It was his own voice sending out a beam of sound like a dolphin using echo location. Only he found himself to be alone. Nothing but him and the wooden pedestal from hell in the darkness.

The room was illuminated and he thought someone had come to relieve him of the unbearable pressure. But the light went out as quickly as it came.

Another flash and Greg jerked awake in his bed. His hand went to the thigh habitually, although lately he didn't bother to massage what was left. There was no clawing pain, just the remnants of a nightmare. He exhaled shakily as a bolt of lightning lit his room again.

He forced himself to sit up and calm his heavily beating heart. He needed air. With almost a practiced ease he slid out of bed and into the wheelchair. Opening the window was the goal. Fresh air was the prize.

As he maneuvered the chair in that direction he could see snow falling, swirling in the wind that jostled the tree branches. He got to the window just in time to feel the pane rattle as a clap of thunder rumbled across the sky. Greg watched enthusiastically as the storm intensified.

Lightning flashed and he froze. The light, the snow and the glass provided the perfect mirror. Only the reflection staring back at him wasn't his.

Yacci sat on the other side of the glass, his mirror image. He smiled at Greg, but it didn't last for more than a glancing moment before infinite sadness graced his face. He made no sound, yet his lips were moving.

Gregory House shuddered as the man from the past begged him to get up and walk.


	4. Renaissance

Renaissance

Memories of old man Yaccobucci haunted Greg throughout the month and into the next. 'Get up and walk' was the mantra that stuck in House's head. It's not like he could just jump up and put one foot in front of the missing other…god he missed his right foot at the moment. And then his mind drifted to an absurd thought: buying sneakers. What in the hell was he supposed to do with the right shoes? Maybe some poor left-legged amputee could use a size twelve.

He shook the thought from his head before maneuvering himself out of bed and into the wheelchair. Greg had managed to master the technique relatively quickly once he set his mind to it. He hadn't quite made the decision to wear a prosthetic; the fact was he still abhorred the idea, and at the same time he couldn't envision himself as a creepy old man selling candy to kids. Besides, if he was ever going to get up the nerve to play the old upright in the rec room, he wanted to look semi-acceptable – and make a hasty escape if he needed to.

Added to his new ambition was a desire to contact Wilson. It had been quite a while since they spoke – well Wilson spoke, House pretended to listen; let alone saw each other. Since he hardly spoke to anyone in his current 'stumping' grounds, the need to vent his random observations was reaching critical mass. This just might be the day he made the call.

Sarah knocked on his door announcing breakfast was ready in the dining hall. Since Greg had made great strides in mobility, he was encouraged to leave his suite as much as possible. The staff had noticed a change in mood and encouraged him to explore his surroundings.

A few times Greg had to be verbally reprimanded for going into unauthorized areas, but was generally allowed access to information that was usually reserved for the medical staff. They hadn't forgotten he was a world famous diagnostician, even if he did. A couple of times he had stumbled upon a situation that required his expertise. His sharp eye for detail and keen knowledge of physiology contributed to a few of his fellow patients achieving a higher level of comfort with their own prosthetics. The technicians were wowed by his syncratic mind; the doctors proud to have him as adjunct staff _pro bono_. Now all they needed was for Greg House to take an interest in his toughest case yet: his own well-being.

After breakfast Greg made his usual rounds ending in the rec room. Today he approached the double doors cautiously as his hearing was assaulted by what he could only assume was a tone deaf, hearing impaired prodigy of Animal the Muppet. Fingers, perhaps ensconced in mittens, fumbled on the keys searching out a pattern, or the lack of one as the cacophony stabbed at his ear drums, musical sensibility and his last nerve.

He burst through the doors in a huff. "Are you playing what's written or what's rotten!" His voice bellowed, reverberating over the din.

The figure at the piano stopped playing abruptly. She turned slowly to face the voice, remembering the man. "Hello, Greg." Lydia smiled, but it soon faded. The man she had once made love to was a former shadow of himself.

"Hell, it seems like I lost my right leg and yours got twice as heavy on the pedals." Greg's statement was devoid of any emotion. Her faded smile shot through him like an arrow to the heart.

Lydia just stared, unsure why. He was the same person she had known at Mayfield, albeit a little thinner; a little more haunted.

"What's the matter, ain't you never seen an amputee before? The whole place is full of them." He gestured to the room with both arms wide.

"I'm just a little—"

"Repulsed?"

She felt herself blush. "No, surprised."

"Surprised?"

"Well, of course! I expected to find you at least standing." She left the bench to approach him. "It's my turn to have to lean down to kiss you."

He pulled away. "In case you haven't noticed, standing requires to legs…last time I checked."

"Or crutches—"

"Or titanium, screws and springs, but I'm not as good looking as that Edward Scissorhands guy."

Lydia smiled as she pushed a lock of his hair away from his eyes. "You need a haircut and a shave."

"I need a lot of things."

"I brought Dvorjak for four hands…we never did get to play it last time."

"Why are you here?" His ever suspicious mind started whirring. Who told her? Wilson knew very little. Had to be Nolan.

"I got a call from someone who said you needed a friend." She grabbed his hands, reoffering the smile she initially met him with.

"So much for HIPPA," he tried to pull away.

"Come, play the piano with me – for me."

"I don't appreciate the mercy visit." Greg started to roll away.

"Don't walk away from this. You need it."

Greg scoffed. "Yeah, sure, I'll 'walk' away."

"Go ahead, roll on out, but someone who cares for you enough went to the trouble of finding me and asking me to stop in to see you."

"'Cause you just happened to be in the neighborhood."

She headed him off. They dodged each other a few times before she leaned over him, hand on his armrests, impeding his progress.

"I have no idea who the woman was that called. She just said that you had a major setback and could use an unbiased friend." Lydia looked deeply into Greg's eyes.

He was thinking. Upon first hearing it was a woman, he thought it might have been Cuddy. But she wouldn't bother with the unbiased friend bit. And unless Wilson found out from Nolan and told Cuddy – he didn't believe Cuddy had a clue about Lydia.

Who else could it have been? Thirteen? Nah, she respected her privacy and his too much to go that distance. For a second Allison Cameron flashed in his mind, only to be quashed by the fact that she'd come herself.

"I like the way you look when you're working on a puzzle," Lydia cooed seductively.

"Who really sent you?"

"I don't know. Does it really matter? I'm here. Let's play the piano and not worry about motives and conspiracies. It's just us and the music." She rolled him to the upright.

"I don't want to play it," he lied.

"For God sakes, Greg, you lost your leg, not your hands," she scolded before sitting down and opening the sheet music.

In that moment, something clicked for Greg. He looked at his hands, holding them up, inspecting every aspect of them. For months he had neglected a part of himself to mourn the loss of a leg. For over a decade he had mourned the loss of its use and continued to seek solace by playing piano. Why should now be any different?

Lydia slid over the bench making room for him. He did what he had been preparing to do for a few weeks now. In one smooth move, he was out of his chair and on the piano bench. The one thing he hadn't accounted for was the smooth surface. He had to adjust his weight on his butt cheeks to keep his right side from sliding forward.

"Who knew I'd need a seat belt," House joked at the awkwardness. He kept himself balanced on the bench with each hand.

Lydia waited patiently for him to cock his wrists and place his fingers over the keys. It didn't happen.

"Is something wrong?"

"Um, I … nevermind."

And still he didn't move.

"Greg?" Lydia was deeply concerned by the look in his eyes.

"I'm afraid."

"Don't worry, I won't be as harsh with you as you are with me if you play a wrong note."

"I'm about to fall off the seat," he said softly.

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't realize that my balance would be off if I wasn't in a cushioned chair."

A small 'oh' came to her lips. "What can I do to help?"

{H}

Back in his suite House gave Lydia the grand tour from his bed as she cuddled on his left side.

"It's nice, but it's not home," she looked around at the decidedly sterile room. "When will you get back to your place?"

Greg didn't answer right away. He kept rubbing his thumb on her left triceps. He hadn't thought about leaving this place. Here he felt more helpless than at Mayfield. At least with his body working he could function around the apartment and at work. At Kessler he was physically helpless; more so than he wanted to admit since the piano fiasco.

Lydia was gazing up into his thoughtful face. "Don't herniate your brain. It was meant to be a benign question."

Greg sighed, returning his attention to her. "Be that as it may, I've got a lot of work to do before I get out of here."

"I did some research on the internet," she stated matter-of-factly, "and most amputees are back home and functioning long before now."

"Contrary to popular cyber beliefs, I am NOT a Wikipedia statistic." Greg couldn't be crass with her; somewhere there was still a soft spot in his heart reserved for her. In a way she was his Jiminy Cricket at times.

"Then what has kept you from making the most of this situation?" Her hurt eyes pleaded with his.

"Have you met me?" He teased.

She wasn't fooled. "I know no one can imag—"

"Please don't go there," he cautioned as she felt his body stiffen.

Lydia rearranged herself more comfortably. "Fine. You don't want to deal with this right now. I guess I can't fault you."

"Don't patronize me either," he warned.

She pulled away. "Stop being so stubborn! There are patients who need you, your friends miss you and you're missing out on life."

"What life?" He scoffed.

"With a prosthetic you'll be able to do so much more than before. Walk, maybe even run. Definitely work. Enjoy a life a little since the pain is gone."

"I won't be pretty."

"We can't all be gifted with good looks."

"I'll look like half of the Terminator."

"That guy went on to be the Governor of California."

"I'd rather be the Bionic Man."

"He had a hard time not wearing out shoes."

"Maybe I can get a Nike endorsement."

Lydia sat up. "That's a great idea! You could be the role model for the average guy. Who needs athletes to sell shoes?"

"Yea, sure. I'm just what every kid aspires to grow up to be."

"Well, maybe they could air the commercials on HBO or Showtime."

{H}

After Lydia had said her good-byes and parted, House returned to the rec room. He sat across the room from the piano staring it down as if it was a bucking bronco that needed breaking. Almost immediately that became his second to next goal. He rolled back to his room with one more plan to be enacted.

{H}

"James Wilson," the oncologist answered his personal phone as if it was his work line.

"He lives!" House was surprised by how much joy was actually reflected in his tone.

Wilson stared at the _i_phone's screen but didn't recognize the number.

"And who might this be?"

"God, Jimmy, you think you'd remember your BFF. It's only been—"Greg scoffed.

"House. House!" Wilson seemed to reanimate like Rip van Winkle. "What's up? What's wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong? Why can't something be right?"

"Wait a minute. You're not Greg House."

"It's me, Wilson."

"You sound…"

"Don't say 'happy'."

"Better."

"I'm getting my will to live back."

"What brought that on?"

"Your gift."

"I didn't send you anything," Wilson became concerned. Maybe House has somehow managed to overmedicate himself.

"Whatever. I just called to set up a play date."

"Who are you?" Wilson was really starting to doubt the caller, even though it did sound like House.

"Ha ha. Just bring your butt over when you get a chance." Greg hung up, wondering how long he'd have to wait.


End file.
